


Pasión

by White Aster (white_aster)



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Suikoden III
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am not only your host but also your friend, no?  It is a duty and a privilege to aid you in making your entrance to the Rozarrian court as smooth as possible."  Al-Cid leaned forward into Albert's line of sight.  "And I must tell you, in all seriousness, if you do not have passionate sex with someone soon...people are going to think you odd."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pasión

Rozarrian parties were colorful, raucous affairs. The costumes were bright, the music was loud, and the festivities often went on until dawn. One's dress, one's stance, even one's skill at singing and dancing were all measures of a person's worth just as surely as one's rank or social status.

 

Albert would have avoided such fetes like the plague if they were not also where most of the actual politicking of the Rozarrian Empire took place. Luckily, his host and guide since arriving from Archadia had been more than willing to school him in the finer points of Rozarrian protocol, down to which tailors to patronize and which dancing masters were both skilled and discreet.

 

Albert had yet to decide whether Al-Cid was the worst or best guide that he could have had. On the one hand, the man had been incredibly helpful.

 

"Do my eyes deceive me? You do not look like you are having a good time, my friend Silverberg. You obviously--" A glass pressed itself into Albert's hand, demanding that he take it or let it fall and shatter on the tiles "--need more wine."

 

On the other hand, he was also incredibly annoying.

 

The ninth son of House Margrace sat down next to Albert on the divan in a wash of sandalwood-scented heat and midnight silk. "And perhaps a tryst, to relax you." He patted Albert's knee. "Fear not. That one daughter of House Maggia...the quiet one with the braid...she hasn't taken her eyes off you all night. I've heard that she's quite a tiger between the sheets."

 

"Fascinating," Albert said, eyes continuing to read the lips of a very interesting conversation going on between two slightly inebriated hidalgo generals across the room.

 

"Or perhaps young men are more your taste? General Iborra's son looked as if he was willing to trade state secrets for a few moments inside your trousers. The boy has a taste for the exotic, so I am told...." Al-Cid took back the glass of wine, drained it, then traded a servant the empty glass for a full one. Which he put back in Albert's hand.

 

"No, thank you." Albert tried not to squint. The generals were moving away, starting to be obscured by the swirl of silk-clad dancers.

 

A sigh at his elbow. "Albert." The slight roll to the r, the swallowed t, the shift of emphasis were all starting to sound less foreign. "I am not only your host but also your friend, no? It is a duty and a privilege to aid you in making your entrance to the Rozarrian court as smooth as possible." Al-Cid leaned forward into Albert's line of sight. "And I must tell you, in all seriousness, if you do not have passionate sex with someone soon...people are going to think you odd."

 

Albert looked at him.

 

Al-Cid held up his hands placatingly. "I merely warn! Perhaps you do not mind being thought a priggish Archadian who feels himself above the most basic of Rozarrian customs. You are a skilled negotiator, and so perhaps you do not need the subtle and pleasurable ties of mutual dalliances to conduct your business. Perhaps, even, this is remarkable self-sacrifice, as you have some strange foreign disease. I merely inform, I do not judge!"

 

"...Thank you, my lord." The wine in his glass was chill against his palm. Albert resisted the urge to down it. Oddly enough, he'd never had that urge before coming to Rozarria.

 

"Furthermore, you might be pleased to know that the Generals Ancar and Mencorro, when they leave the room such as they just did, soon cease to discuss politics and instead devote themselves to more sensual matters." Al-Cid produced yet another glass of wine from somewhere, white this time. He swirled it in the glass, breathing in the bouquet. "They enjoy the company of one of the more delectable ladies of the night who frequents the generals' beds, and then head home to much less delectable and accomodating wives." He sipped, smiled. "In other words, you likely will not miss anything."

 

"How very observant of you," Albert said, and Al-Cid dipped his head in acknowledgement.

 

"However, the esteemed generals, often looking to escape said harridans and discuss their strategy away from prying eyes and ears, also tend to take breakfast at a lovely little cafe on the outskirts of the north plaza...I forget the name. Something to do with pastries." Al-Cid leaned back, arms spreading along the back of the divan. "Where, I might add, a keen-eared man, or a hired...what is the Archadian word...streetear?...might garner much while the generals muse over their coffee."

 

Albert raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

 

Al-Cid waggled his own eyebrow in response. "Just so." He stood again, giving the impression of a man who had never fully come to rest in the first place. "And now that your information gathering quota has been satisfied for the night, I will aid you again, my friend. You have not yet danced. If this is not remedied, you will be branded an awkward foreigner with no passion or sense of style. Truly a social death sentence." He held out a hand and leaned in, his whisper much too loud to be conspiratorial. "And I know for a fact that Cantorra has taught you the tango."

 

Indeed, the music was unfamiliar, but the beat was not. Albert looked at the offered hand and sighed. To refuse it now, with eyes on them both, would serve no purpose. He took Al-Cid's hand and firmly ignored the victory in the man's eyes.

 

And if there was ever any doubt about what _other_ cultural faux pas Al-Cid was willing to help Albert avoid, it was banished by the tight embrace and focused eye contact of the dance. Not to mention the Rozarrian love of tight pants.

 

Albert had long ago seen that Al-Cid was not nearly as transparent as he appeared, but as they paced each other across the floor, chest-to-chest, he was very easy to read. Probably deliberately so, Albert decided: letting his intentions be known, giving Albert a chance to plan a tactful retreat in response to whatever offer he might make.

 

When the music came to a stomping, brassy stop, it was Albert who smiled with wry invitation, murmured in Al-Cid's ear, and led him off the dance floor. Al-Cid laughed and followed.


End file.
